most of the lights in the houses in park lane were out when walter reached his uncle's residence. but as he entered the hall he could see that the studio was still ablaze. the door was 'closed, but a thin shaft of light penetrated from beneath. as walter tried the door he found to his surprise that it was locked. with some feeling of apprehension he called to his uncle, and a moment later ravenspur turned the key. his face was pale. there was in his eyes a look which spoke of some vague fear.
"i hope i am not disturbing you," walter said.
"my dear boy, i am only too pleased to have a companion," ravenspur said eagerly. "upon my word, my nerves are so much shaken by these terrible happenings that i am almost afraid to be alone. sit down and have a cigarette."
walter took a cigarette from the silver box on a little table, nor did he fail to note the presence of a stand of spirits, which was a thing in which his uncle rarely, or never, indulged.
"i really needed a stimulant tonight," ravenspur said, half apologetically. "where have you been all the evening?"
"i have been out making discoveries," walter said, as he threw himself down into a comfortable armchair, "and one of my discoveries has been really remarkable. to be perfectly candid, venables and myself have been doing a little private detective business together. venables was by no means satisfied that that fellow stevens had told all he knew at the inquest on poor delahay, so we hunted mr. stevens up, and finally ran him to earth in his dingy lodgings."
"and did he give you any valuable information?" ravenspur asked eagerly. "was it worth your while?"
"indeed, it was, as you will see for yourself, sir. as soon as ever we got into the room i was struck by a picture there. one does not usually find great works of art in a bed-sitting room at five shillings a week. and when you see a picture like that, worth a couple of thousand pounds at least, it naturally arouses your curiosity. and when, on the top of that, the picture is perfectly familiar to you, why, my dear uncle----"
"you mean you had seen the picture before? where?"
"in this very studio; you painted it here, sir. it is one of the three pictures which were stolen from you some time ago. oh, you need not shake your head, uncle. i assure you that i have not made the slightest mistake. i leave you to guess which of the three pictures it was that i saw in that dreary bed-sitting room."
"i think i can tell you," ravenspur groaned. "it was the fancy portrait. some instinct tells me so."
"you are quite right, sir," walter went on. "it was the portrait, surely enough. but it did not belong to stevens, as you will probably have guessed by this time. it had been left in his care by an italian friend, who gave a very plausible reason for being in possession of so valuable a work. i understand that this italian's name was luigi silva. have you heard of him?"
lord ravenspur rose from his chair, and walked agitatedly up and down the studio. it was some little time before he spoke, and then his words came slowly and painfully.
"i see you know more than i had expected," he said. "for instance, you have formed the conclusion that this luigi silva stole that picture. in fact, that he came here on purpose to get possession of it, and that he took two other canvases at the same time to prevent us finding out his real motive. till tonight i had not the remotest idea why this luigi silva wanted that portrait, because the loss of the other pictures utterly deceived me, as it was intended to do. now i know better."
"but you did not answer my question, sir," lance suggested.
"oh, yes; you wanted to know if i was personally acquainted with this man. as a matter of fact, i am not, though i have heard far too much about him for my peace of mind. but tell me, how did you manage to ascertain the fellow's proper name?"
"that, of course, we got from stevens," walter explained. "silva is in england ostensibly as a music hall artist; in other words, he is valdo, the flying man that i told you about a little time ago. but don't you think we are getting rather from the point, uncle? i want to know the history of this man."
once more ravenspur commenced his walk up and down the room. he seemed to be hovering between two minds.
"perhaps it would be wiser if i were to tell you everything," he said. "i did not intend to do so, but to a certain extent you have forced my hand, and it would be much more prudent for you to know where you stand. you asked me just now what i knew of this man silva. eighteen years ago he was in the employ of a great friend of mine, count boris flavio. my unfortunate friend is forgotten now, but at the time of which i am speaking he enjoyed almost a european reputation. to begin with, he was an exceedingly rich man. he had one of the most beautiful places on the continent, situated not far from florence. had he been poor, flavio would have shone in any line he chose to take up. he was a fine artist, a notable sculptor, and one or two of his books attracted great attention. in addition to this, he had few rivals as an all-round sportsman. his conversation was brilliant, his appearance and manners left nothing to be desired. out of the scores of notable men i have met in my time, there is not one of them to whom i was so deeply attached as i was to boris flavio. his views, his sympathies, his extraordinary grasp of character all appealed strongly to me. so far as i know, he had no secrets from me, and it came almost as a shock one day when i had a letter from him saying that he was about to be married. naturally one expected such a man to make a brilliant match, but, on the contrary, flavio chose a wife from people of whom one had hardly heard. on the score of family, carlotta descarti had nothing with which to reproach herself. and here comes in the strange part of the affair. the descartis and the flavios had estates which touched one another, and between the two families there had been a feud for centuries. it was a veritable montague and capulet business, and i daresay it was this factor in the case that so strongly appealed to my friend flavio. mind you, i did not learn these facts till long after, and it so happened that circumstances prevented my attending flavio's wedding, and i never saw his wife. two years later i received an urgent and mysterious message from flavio to go and see him secretly, and meet him in the grounds of his estate without letting a soul know that i was there. . . . i never saw a man so changed as my unhappy friend. it appeared that he had married a woman who was a perfect fiend. she had made more than one attempt upon his life, and he felt certain that the end was not far off. when i asked him why he tolerated such a state of things, he told me it was for the sake of his little girl, to whom he was passionately attached. and then he bound me to an extraordinary promise. mind you, i would not have made that rash promise to any other friend, but such was the charm and magnetism of the man that i never even hesitated. and this is what i had to do. if anything happened to my friend, if he died mysteriously, i was to go to italy at once, and, by fair means or foul, get the child away from the baneful influence of her mother. oh, you may look at me with astonishment, walter, but stranger things happen every day.
"i went away fully intending to keep my promise if occasion arose, and i was not surprised to hear a few months later that poor flavio had been found dead in his room. it was proved that he had been poisoned, and suspicion immediately fell upon his wife. on and off, the case lasted three or four years, and caused a tremendous sensation throughout europe. beyond all question the wife was guilty enough, but she managed to prove an extraordinary alibi, which so puzzled the jury that they disagreed no fewer than five times. after that the authorities recognised the futility of further proceedings, and the countess was released. what became of her i don't know, for she disappeared, and, as far as i can tell, has never been seen from that day to this. but most assuredly she would have been convicted had it not been for the devotion of a servant of hers whom she had brought from her old home with her. this servant's name was luigi silva. it was he who saved his mistress. i am firmly convinced it was he who engineered that marvellous alibi,, and coached his witnesses so cleverly that there was no flaw in their evidence. i was not present at any of the trials, because i could not manage to get away, but i read enough to convince me that this luigi silva had talents and courage far above the common."
"and the child?" walter asked, with pardonable curiosity.
"oh, i had almost forgotten the main part of my story," ravenspur proceeded. "the more i read of that case, the more convinced i was that i should be doing right in carrying out my promise to my dead friend. it was not a difficult matter. it only meant a journey to italy and back, and the little one was in my safe custody. i leave you to guess what that child is called now."
"vera rayne, of course," walter said.
"quite so. from that day to this she has been with me always. but, mind you, i was not blind to the risk i was taking. if ever the truth came out, my life was not worth much. i knew that i should be tracked and followed, and finally lose my life, even if the search took twenty years. but, gradually, as the time wore on, i became easy in my mind. i had taken the utmost precautions to blind my trail, and the only accomplice i had was my old nurse, who has been dead for some years. besides, vera was growing up, and it seemed to me impossible to identify her with the baby not quite two years old. she is not in the least like her father, either, and that is why i made a mistake. i had quite forgotten that she might be very like her mother, and she i have never seen."
